


The Hand That Feeds

by Helholden



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Canon May Joss This, Character Study, Companionable Snark, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Mental Instability, Past Abuse, Post-Season/Series 04 AU, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Reflection, Trust Issues, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-16
Updated: 2016-09-30
Packaged: 2018-03-30 21:38:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 19,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3952675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Helholden/pseuds/Helholden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When they finally release Peter from Eichen House, Lydia is waiting outside the gate for him. As he tries to get back to his normal routine, he finds a certain someone following his steps and keeping an eye on him at what he believes is at the behest of another—and everyone has an ulterior motive, don’t they?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Calm Before the Storm

**Author's Note:**

  * For [UnitedKingdomOrgy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/UnitedKingdomOrgy/gifts).



> This was just meant to be a one-shot tumblr prompt. I don't even know what I'm doing. Somebody tie my hands. Title comes from the phrase "bite the hand that feeds," or to turn on someone who is helping/has helped you.

_* * *_

 

He steps out onto the pavement, chin raised to the sky. It’s been so long since he has breathed fresh air, so he takes a moment to enjoy it.

 

Peter doesn’t linger, though. In case they change their minds. He wouldn’t put it past Scott or his friends, no matter how many lives Peter saved with his decision. He makes it as far as the gate before he notices the car parked out front, the body leaning against the door.

 

He has to pause, waiting for them to unlatch the gate, as Lydia pushes herself off of the car with her arms still crossed. She gives him a stern look even as he grins back at her, the gate parting between them into a wide gulf of open space. It feels like it could be impassable, but he crosses it anyway.

 

Effortlessly, like he belongs there.

 

“Lydia Martin,” Peter says, still grinning. There is a twinkle in his eyes.

 

She lowers her chin, narrowing her gaze. “Get in the car, Peter,” Lydia orders, a dismissive hand wave at the passenger side door as she turns away from him. He watches as Lydia opens up the driver’s side without bothering looking up at him again, and then he walks forward.

 

“Where are we going?” he asks amiably, reaching for the door handle.

 

She doesn’t answer him until they are both in the car, doors shut, and buckled in. “You mean where are you going,” Lydia corrects him, and she looks up to adjust the rearview mirror. What for, Peter has no idea. She must have driven this car here herself. He sees no one else.

 

He lets her have the moment. Doesn’t say anything snarky, even if it’s lingering on the tip of his tongue. “Where _am_ I going?” he finally asks after a beat, looking out the window.

 

She backs the car out. “Home.”

 

An eerie quiet befalls the front cab as they drive down familiar streets, and Lydia weaves a way through the red lights as they turn green. The streets are a haze of afterglow fluorescence. Over it all sits a fog, light but oppressing. The tension is thick. Thick enough he could cut it and leave them with a permanent scar to forever remind them of this moment, but Lydia appears unaffected by the humidity as she calmly cranks up the knob on the air conditioner while making a left turn.

 

Peter’s palms are sweaty. He wipes them on his jeans, the denim soaking up the moisture.

 

When she pulls into the parking garage and finds a spot, Peter gets out of the car as fast as possible without seeming like he is trying to get away. “Thanks for the ride,” he says as he shuts the door, only pausing after five steps when he hears a second door shut loudly in the echoing silence.

 

Peter halts in place, turning back in time to see Lydia walking up to him. She raises her eyebrows at the surprised look on his face.

 

“Someone has to make sure you get safely inside,” Lydia comments idly as their eyes meet. She walks past him, leaving her scent trailing in the air of her wake as she heads for the elevator. Peter takes a deep breath, for reasons that don’t involve smelling her, but catches her scent anyway and it raises his hackles more than anything else.

 

The elevator ride is the worst part. It’s worse than the car. Lydia has never been this relaxed around him before, nor stood so close, and Peter can’t remember the last time he was this unnerved either. It’s hot beneath the collar of his jacket, and her hand sits on the metal bar against the wall. Lydia taps her fingers, waiting as they ascend upwards with the softest jolt.

 

“Why are you following me to my apartment?”

 

Lydia doesn’t answer him. The air grows stifling, and his eyes flit to her hand as she taps her finger again on the bar.

 

“Lydia . . . ”

 

The elevator stops, opening up to an empty hallway. Lydia steps off the platform and leads the way like she knows it by heart.

 

Peter has no choice but to follow her.

 

“Are you going to answer me or ignore me?” he inquires, fishing into his pocket for his keys. Before he can pull them out, Lydia stands in front of the door to his apartment, silver gleaming in her hand as it jingles in the moonlight. Peter’s jaw falls open. “Where did you—” She opens the door, pushing inside.

 

Peter stalks quickly after her steps, leaving the door wide open. “Where did you get keys to my apartment?” he demands.

 

“Scott,” Lydia reveals, pocketing the keys and turning to face him.

 

Peter holds out his hand. “Hand them over.”

 

Lydia narrows her eyes. “No.”

 

Peter clenches his fist and lowers it to his side. He isn’t going to grab her. He has to tell himself that to prevent from doing it. “I’ll replace the locks,” he says. It’s the most impotent threat he has ever uttered in his entire existence, but he tries not to think about it right now.

 

Lydia shrugs, tilting her head to the side as she makes a face. “It won’t stop me from coming over,” she informs him, turning away from him. “A little thank you would be nice,” Lydia adds as she walks over to hit the lights. “I cleaned up this place before you got out. Dust was on _everything_.”

 

“Why are you doing this?”

 

Lydia halts, surveying the countertop by brushing a finger over it and examining it for dust. “Doing what?”

 

“ _This_.”

 

The word leaves his lips with a hiss. Lydia cuts her eyes at him, displeased with his reaction or his tone. He can’t tell which. Peter may have inadvertently saved Scott’s life back in Eichen House, as well as the lives of Lydia and her friends, but that’s no reason for them to trust him again. That’s no reason for them to let Peter go on with his life to plot against them all over again.

 

There is not a thread of trust between them, and Lydia’s presence only reminds him of the fact. She isn’t here to be nice.

 

She isn’t here to be his friend.

 

“Those berserkers,” Lydia finally says, crossing her arms. She looks right at him when she speaks. “They weren’t sent there to hurt me. Only to trap me. Why?”

 

Peter narrows his eyes. He moves to take a step. “Kate controlled the berserkers, not—”

 

“She never told them not to attack before,” Lydia interrupts, not having it. “They attacked Scott, Derek, and Malia. They even came after you. I was the least likely to be able to fight back, too, so why? Why, Peter?”

 

His eyes don’t leave hers. He keeps them steady. “There is no why.”

 

“Of course there is,” she says, unfaltering. “Why don’t you want to admit it?”

 

Peter shrugs. “There is nothing to admit,” he responds easily.

 

Lydia walks toward him. She pulls the keys out of her pocket, dangling them in the air. Peter cuts his eyes at them. “I’ll give you your keys back,” Lydia tells him in a softer voice than before, “if you tell me why they were sent there only to trap me.”

 

Peter looks from the keys to her face. The tension thrums between them, the keys gleaming as they shake softly.

 

“Was it because you didn’t want any more harm to come to me?”

 

Their eyes are locked on one another, the room dissolving around them until it is only the two of them standing face to face, warm hazel against pale blue.

 

Immediate dismissal would be best if he doesn’t want her to get any ideas, but an outright lie doesn’t suit him right now. It suited him when Stiles demanded they wait on Lydia, but Peter’s plan then involved Lydia staying behind at the school with the berserker guarding her. It suited him then. It doesn’t suit him now.

 

“You’re opening a rabbit hole, Lydia,” Peter answers her, his voice low between them as his eyebrows lift up, “and I’m not quite so sure you want to go down that path.”

 

Her eyes flash bright with anger like bolts of lightning struck into her veins. She is angry that he won’t give it up. That he won’t give her a forward answer to the question she has asked of him. Her anger, however, is miniscule to what it could be if she let it. “Scott hasn’t forgiven you,” Lydia reveals. “He’s just better than this. He’s better than being petty over grudges. Do you know why?” She gives Peter the answer, even if he doesn’t ask for it. “Because he’s a good person.”

 

Peter steps closer to her. “And let me guess. You’re not? Better than this?”

 

“Have you ever given me a reason to be?” Lydia asks with a steady voice, looking him in the eyes.

 

Peter considers it thoughtfully. “Well, I never intended to kill you. I’ve told you that before. You were my backup plan. I needed you to survive. You must realize that by now, Lydia, or else you’re being _willfully_ ignorant.”

 

“What you intended isn’t what matters,” she says. “It’s what you’ve done.”

 

“I _intended_ to kill Scott,” adds Peter.

 

“You failed.”

 

Her eyes bore into his with an unflinching gaze. She’s grown some steel since he last saw her. He wants to see it fall away again, so he gives her what she wants—an answer.

 

“Fair enough,” he admits. “I told Kate to instruct them not to harm you.”

 

The breath that leaves her lips is a shaky little thing. “Why?”

 

Peter raises his brow. “Good question.” He leans closer, lets his breath wash over her ear. “Maybe if you give me back my keys, next time I’ll tell you.”

 

Lydia is still for a few moments until she tilts close to his ear as well. Her breath tickles where it touches. “Maybe next time if you tell me, I’ll give them back.”

 

She retracts her hand quickly, keys jingling in protest. Peter closes his hand over thin air without reaching out for them, feeling the opportunity slip through his fingers like tiny grains of sand escaping him. Lydia pulls away, smiling, and he doesn’t try to stop her. This is nothing more than a passing nuisance. Peter won’t lose his control over an incident that is microscopic by comparison to their past dealings.

 

At least that’s what he tells himself while his fingers clench tightly into his palm, nails digging deep.

 

Lydia leaves him in his silence with her smiles and her clacking heels, the sound fading as she draws closer to the door. “Goodnight,” she calls out once she’s at it, and then she’s gone and he is all alone with his thoughts once again.

 

“Touché, Lydia,” Peter says to himself, turning his back on the door.

 

He wonders how long this game she is playing is meant to last and wonders how long he’ll be able to tolerate it, or, if he can, divert it, or end it altogether.

 

Before it becomes something both of them will come to regret.

 

 


	2. Ozymandias

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is loved. [Calicokat](http://calicokat-teenwolf.tumblr.com/) has written some great metas about "water/rebirth" imagery in the show, and I've included a touch of it here at the end of this chapter in homage to that.

_* * *_

 

He is sprawled out over the bed in his sleep, face down and hugging the pillow, when a shirt lands on his back and wakes him up immediately.

 

Peter is a light sleeper. He always has been, so when he feels it hit him, his eyes shoot wide open. He rolls over half in confusion, half in alarm, gaze searching for the source of the wayward piece of clothing that was thrown at him until it lands on a figure crossing his loft in the darkness, heading straight for the windows.

 

Peter turns over completely, sitting up in bed. He stares slack jawed at the sight before him.

 

This is not happening.

 

“Do you really sleep this late?” Lydia asks as she reaches the windows, yanking back the drapes with both hands and sending bright sunlight _right_ into his eyes. Peter shuts them tightly and looks away, lifting an arm to block it.

 

“ _Seriously_ —”

 

“You really oughta get out of bed and get dressed,” Lydia admonishes, leaving the window to walk the loft. “It’s half past one in the afternoon. Do you normally sleep this late? It would explain why you’re always prowling around somewhere after dark . . . ”

 

Peter clenches his jaw and lowers his arm, maintaining his cool. “No,” he says, “I do _not_ normally sleep this late, and what the _hell_ are you doing in my apartment, anyway?”

 

Lydia lifts a jangling set of metal. “Keys,” she offers offhandedly. “Remember?”

 

“So what?” Peter throws back at her, making a grand gesture with both arms to encompass the entirety of his living space. “That just gives you right to stroll into my place of residence whenever you please?”

 

Lydia bites her lip and nods. “Pretty much,” she answers.

 

“Get out,” Peter bites back, rising from bed. He snatches up the t-shirt she threw at his back and pulls it on over his head. When he gets the hemline down to his waist, he stalks across the floor to stand in front of her. “Now,” Peter grinds out between gritted teeth. His voice is threateningly low below his breath, but Lydia doesn’t appear to be afraid of him in the slightest.

 

“Oh, Peter,” she says with a soft sigh afterwards. Her expression is patronizingly sympathetic. “I understand completely. You don’t like it when you wake up to find somebody uninvited inside of your home, telling you what to do . . . ” Lydia cocks her head as she looks at him, the insincerity shining in her eyes and giving them a cold quality. “Do you?”

 

Peter does his best to exhale slowly in order to keep his temper in check. “Okay, so you’ve made your point,” he concedes. “You can leave now.”

 

“Oh, I don’t think I have,” Lydia disagrees with him, giving him a sideways look before she walks away. She heads for the kitchen, and Peter sees that she brought things with her. Tall brown paper bags sit on top of the otherwise empty counter. They are full.

 

“What is this? An intervention?”

 

“Oh, sweetheart, I think you’re well past that,” Lydia tells him without looking at him as she rummages through one of the bags, her eyebrows shooting up. She doesn’t find what she is looking for, so she empties its contents onto the counter. She lifts two separate clear bags of bread rolls. “White or wheat?”

 

Peter blinks. “Wheat,” he answers. “ _Why_ are you here?”

 

She lifts two more bottles. “Mayo or mustard?”

 

“Lydia, why are you _here_?” Peter stresses, the final word coming out as a hiss as he viciously points a finger at the floor near his feet. “Is this your idea of getting on my good side? Because news flash! It isn’t working.”

 

Lydia places the bottles down, not looking at him when she speaks. “I’m not here to get on your good side, Peter.”

 

“I repeat: _why are you here?_ ”

 

Lydia places both palms flat on the counter and raises her eyes to him. “Keeping an eye on you,” she says, and she reveals it almost casually.

 

“Out of all the people who could have done that,” Peter taunts, a false saccharine smile on his lips, but her reply cuts more than it should and her eyes don’t leave his when she delivers it with a shrug.

 

“No one else wanted to.”

 

The words pass her lips effortlessly, and Peter fights back the only way he knows how to. With bitterness. “Afraid I’ll hurt someone? Betray our precious Scott all over again?”

 

Lydia narrows her eyes at his choice of _our_. “You won’t,” she says firmly.

 

“And you’ll stop me?”

 

Peter steps forward, a challenge hanging off his words. He stops once he reaches the counter and stands across from her. Its glossy polished surface is cool to the touch when Peter places his palms on it and leans toward her. It’s as intimidating as he can be without using real physicality.

 

Lydia just stares straight at him. Her palms still rest on the counter as she leans forward, too. “Is it really that important to you, hurting Scott?”

 

Peter doesn’t dignify that with a response.

 

“Why did you save him, then?” Lydia pushes onward. “He could have died back in Eichen House, and you could have let him. That was your original goal, wasn’t it? Kill Scott? Kill Scott McCall and all of your selfish dreams come true? All of your imaginary problems, solved? But you helped him, didn’t you?” Lydia leans closer, scrutinizing him with her gaze. “Why?”

 

No matter what he does around her, nothing seems to go his way. Nothing at all.

 

Peter looks away from her, his face twitching with the realization. He still doesn’t answer Lydia.

 

“You don’t even know, do you?”

 

He glances back at her, giving her a wide grin that crinkles the corners of his eyes and bares his teeth. “I know myself very well, thank you _very_ much.”

 

Lydia purses her lips and nods her head at his retort. She grabs the two squeeze bottles from a few minutes ago, holding each one up in a different hand. “Okay, mayo or mustard?”

 

Peter is beginning to get the distinct feeling that this is all part of a joke. A bigger joke that no one has let him in on yet. He narrows his eyes, but he answers her.

 

“Mustard.”

 

Lydia nods in satisfaction and gets to work making him a sub while she asks him a series of questions, and when it’s done, she hands it over to him on a plate. He goes to reach out for it, thinking she wants him to take it, but Lydia snatches the plate back. She eyes him closely. “This is the only sandwich I am ever making for you, Peter,” she tells him, “so enjoy the moment while it lasts.”

 

Lydia slowly hands it over, smiling as Peter accepts it but not without a look of wariness on his face. After that, Lydia makes one for herself and puts everything away and joins Peter on the couch where he decided to take his food. He pauses, giving her another wary look when she sits down and makes herself comfortable before taking a bite. As she begins, he has already finished, and he puts his plate aside. Lydia feels his eyes on her, though, and she cuts hers over at him.

 

“Any reason in particular why you’re staring at me?” she asks. She doesn’t seem anxious about his answer. Peter thinks of a number of lewd things he could say to make Lydia uncomfortable, but he doesn’t say any of them.

 

“Are you really here to keep an eye on me?” Peter asks, and he hunches over and lowers his voice like they are conversing secrets. “What, write down every little thing I say and do and make a report for Scott?” He tilts his head, glittering eyes teasing her along with his questions. “Do you think he’ll give you more points if you tell him boxers or briefs? Because I—”

 

“Peter,” Lydia says, cutting him off, “I don’t care if you wear a tutu under your jeans, and if you ever tell me, I’ll personally make your life a living hell and don’t you think for one _second_ that I won’t.”

 

Peter leans back, a satisfied grin on his face. He got to her, even if she doesn’t say it out loud. He makes a dismissive hand gesture across the loft. “Don’t you have school or something? I’d hate to hold you back.”

 

“College,” Lydia says, taking another bite of her sub. She takes her time chewing it and answers him afterwards. “It’s not like high school, though. You have more free time between classes, even with a full workload.” She glances frivolously at him and shrugs. “But considering you never went, you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

 

He is mildly offended by her claim. “How do _you_ know I never went to college?” he fires back. “For all you know, I have master’s degrees in two separate fields.”

 

“Oh yeah?” Lydia says, glancing at him again. “How’s that working out for ya?” She gives him a once over, looking unimpressed.

 

Peter feels the heat crawl upward over his neck from beneath his t-shirt. His face twitches angrily at her response. He narrows his eyes at her and gives her one of his own patronizing smiles before getting up from the couch. Peter dismisses the conversation by not even acknowledging her response.

 

“While you’re enjoying yourself on _my_ sofa in _my_ apartment,” Peter calls out as he walks away, “ _I’m_ going to take a shower.”

 

“Where’s the remote?” Lydia calls back, and Peter actually feels his eyes wanting to bulge out of his skull as he turns around to stare at the back of her head.

 

“Enjoy the search _finding_ it,” he bites back.

 

He doesn’t bother to stay to see the look on her face at his answer.

 

Peter shuts the bathroom door behind himself, his hand still on the handle when he tilts his head forward and lets out a deep calming breath. He draws in another one as strong as possible before letting go of the door and turning away.

 

This was not how he planned his escape from Eichen House. Derek is nowhere to be found—at least he’s nowhere to be found when it comes to Peter. Derek wants nothing to do with him anymore, and he made that much clear the last time they saw each other face to face. _If I ever see your face again, I’ll put you right back in there myself_ , Derek had said with a perfectly calm expression and clear eyes.

 

Lydia sits on his couch, a set of his apartment keys in her pocket, given to her by Scott McCall because none of the others care what Peter does as long as it doesn’t involve assailing them, and none of them want to be around him either—and not that Peter cares about any of those selfish, whiny teenagers, anyway, but it’s the principle of the matter.

 

He is all alone. He is really all alone now.

 

There is a painful tautness in his jaw as he thinks about it, and he pushes it down because Peter is not weak and he is not subject to his emotions when he can help it. He runs the water hot and steps under its spray, letting it wash over his face with eyes closed before he tilts his head forward and lets it catch in his hair. His palms press against the tiles in front of him, supporting his weight as he leans.

 

Peter had thought he was fighting for his family, for their memory and the glory of something greater than himself that was rooted in his bloodline, in his _name_ , something that Scott would never understand—a boy who came from nothing, who rose on merit, not on rightful inheritance as was the way of the Hale pack. Has been, for generations. For centuries.

 

 _Was_. There isn’t a Hale alpha anymore. There isn’t a Hale pack.

 

There isn’t a Hale family.

 

Peter raises his head. Opens his eyes. He deserves that position. He deserves the title. He was going to make the Hale pack something greater than before, greater than it had ever been in the past. Bring back the respect their name used to incur whenever it was spoken, even when it was mentioned only in passing. _The Hales_. People used to know what that name meant.

 

They don’t anymore. All that is left of their dynasty is the demolished husk of an old burned down house on the edge of Beacon Hills Preserve. There isn’t even a ruin left to remember them by.

 

He stares forward at the shower tiles until they blur together, the lines in the wall melting as the steam from the spray scorches his skin. Peter pulls back from the wall at last and finally washes himself, turns off the water, and snatches a towel. He pats his face dry and runs the towel over his hair, scrubbing it mostly dry.

 

He walks past the mirror, catching a brief glimpse of himself in it sideways.

 

This is all that is left of a once great name. An aging, lone omega without a pack. An estranged nephew of the same caliber as him. They will go extinct. Malia, his daughter, she doesn’t count. She wasn’t raised a Hale. She has no understanding of their name, their principles, their way of life.

 

This is their kingdom now. Nothing.

 

Peter wraps the towel around his waist before he snatches the handle, leaving the bathroom in a haze of anger, the taste of ash on the back of his tongue.

 

 


	3. A Careful Design

_* * *_

 

It’s a few days before he sees her again.

 

Peter goes to open the door, ready to leave his apartment, when he finds her staring back at him from the other side of the threshold. Lydia smiles as she tilts her head, her eyes sparkling with mirth. She doesn’t seem inconvenienced in the slightest with her new task of following Peter around at random.

 

Aggravatingly, she even seems to enjoy it. She shows up unannounced and takes to it with ease, slipping into the role like it’s an old broken-in shoe.

 

“I’m leaving,” Peter deadpans. He steps forward, too, forcing Lydia to move out of the way, and shuts the door behind himself with a twist of his key. Their arms brush together in the enclosed space because, even though Lydia has stepped out of the way, she is still there. Refusing to leave.

 

Lydia hoists the strap of her bag a little higher on her shoulder, turning to follow him as he starts to walk away. “Where are we going?” she asks.

 

Peter halts and faces her. “You’re not going anywhere,” he informs her. Before he turns around, he holds up a single finger and adds for good measure, “Unless, of course, that somewhere is your own home.” Peter aims a nice and smug smile in her direction before turning his back on her to continue walking ahead, thinking that maybe this time she’ll get the hint and leave him be.

 

Lydia follows him all the way out to his vehicle, climbing in the passenger seat when he unlocks the doors and ignoring his protest as she buckles herself in. She looks up at him, patting the strap. “Road safety,” Lydia says calmly, and there is a hint of mocking somewhere in her tone beneath the surface, he can just _sense_ it. Peter has to bite down on his tongue.

 

“Lydia,” he says as firmly as possible, “you are not coming with me.”

 

“Why not?” Lydia asks, shrugging. “It’s not like I’m going to embarrass you. I’m not here to ruin your life.”

 

“ _Really?_ ” Peter can’t keep the sarcasm from his voice. He makes a sound between his teeth as he looks away. “You could’ve fooled me.”

 

Lydia holds up her chin in an act of defiance. He sees it out of the corner of his eyes. “Pretend I’m your daughter,” she offers airily, flipping some of her hair off her shoulder.

 

Peter grinds his teeth together as he pulls the vehicle out of park.

 

Fifteen minutes later with Lydia’s music blaring out of the speakers, Peter pulls up to the establishment and cuts the engine off, effectively ending the stream of intolerable pop music. He gets out and heads toward the doors without her, his eyes catching her reflection in the smooth black glass. She seems to be caught off guard with the choice of location and shoulders her bag in confusion before she follows behind his footsteps.

 

It isn’t until they are both inside and waiting in line, Lydia behind him, when she speaks. “This is your great secret?” she asks in disbelief, casting her gaze over the interior. “A coffee shop?”

 

It’s not his great secret, but it’s a distraction. He isn’t taking her anywhere that isn’t certified boring. The last thing he wants is for Lydia to actually enjoy tailing after him, and maybe this will give her a wake up call. He can only hope.

 

“Not just _any_ coffee shop,” Peter says—and it’s a joke, though he wonders if she will even notice. “The best one around for four blocks.”

  

“Huh,” Lydia adds as Peter scoops up his order and the lady behind the counter gives him a funny look after she glances at Lydia. Peter smiles, fake and sweet; it doesn’t reach his eyes. “She’s my daughter,” he says.

 

The lady raises her eyebrows before turning away. Peter rolls his eyes and leaves Lydia alone in line to pick up her own order while he selects a booth far off from the majority of the crowd. It isn’t long before Lydia joins him with a cup in hand, dropping her bag onto the floor near her feet. “Was this really your destination?” Lydia asks, and she knows better than to believe it, so Peter decides to give her a straightforward answer.

 

“No,” he admits, “but I had to think of somewhere age-appropriate to take you if you were going to tag along.”

 

Lydia bites her lips together and holds them that way for a few seconds. “Please don’t ever tell me the answer to that question.”

 

Peter grins. She’s too easy to fluster sometimes. “This is what you get if you want to tag along.” He sits back in the booth, stretching out. “You can enjoy a nice cup of warm coffee with me.”

 

Lydia’s nostrils flare just a little as she takes in a deep breath. She reaches for her cup and pops the lid to blow on it while Peter observes as she takes her time with a little ritual before drinking it. She removes the lid before setting it down by the top, blows on her coffee to cool it off, and then takes the straw to stir it for a few. When she is done, Lydia places the straw neatly on top of the lid and blows on it again before taking her first sip.

 

“You never did answer my question,” Lydia finally says, lifting her eyes to him.

 

If she notices him staring at her, she doesn’t say anything about it or react. Peter plays dumb, even though he’s fairly certain he knows exactly what she is talking about. “What question?”

 

“Why did you tell Kate to instruct the berserkers not to harm me?”

 

Peter glances down at the table, pretending to be interested in the pattern along its surface as he skirts around the question. “That didn’t quite work out now, did it?”

 

She is quiet for a beat. “Derek told you?”

 

Peter raises his eyes. “Of course he told me. He told me how you raced headlong into one with a baseball bat.” Peter tilts his head, giving her a sharp look. “That’s brave, even for a banshee.”

 

“What do you mean, ‘even for a banshee?’”

 

He smiles knowingly. “You know exactly what I mean.”

 

They both know it without him having to say it. Lydia used her powers in Eichen House. Similarly, she didn’t seem to know in advance that’s how far they could go when she was pushed to the limit.

 

“Did you know banshees could do that?”

 

Peter lifts his eyebrows as he answers her. “Not that in particular, no, but powers can always evolve, and that’s something a lot of people don’t think about, but I do.” He reaches for his coffee, which has now become lukewarm, and finishes it off. There is a distinct taste of bitter cream at the bottom. “Apparently, so did the doctors at Eichen.”

 

She seems hesitant to ask her next question. “Did they ever experiment on you?”

 

Peter mulls over whether or not to answer Lydia. “We hadn’t gotten to that stage yet,” he finally says.

 

A long moment of silence elapses between them until Peter looks out the nearest window at the bodies passing along the street outside. Lydia doesn’t jump into sympathy mode at his admission. Instead, she finds another path of assessment to follow. “This ability to evolve,” she goes on, “it must be different for everyone. Scott evolved into a True Alpha. Derek evolved into a full-fledged shape shifter with the form of a wolf, and we’ve known others . . . ”

 

“The twins,” Peter says, casting his gaze back to her. There is a twinkle of delight in them at reminding her of her fallen boyfriend. “They were able to mold into a super form.”

 

Lydia stares him down. “You,” she adds firmly. “You were able to shift into a big black beast like something out of an eighties horror movie.”

 

He smirks. “We all have our talents.”

 

“Is that what they were trying to do in Eichen House?” she asks, her voice softer this time. “Harness our talents? Tamper with evolution?”

 

“Your guess is as good as mine, but I’m sure that was a part of their motive.”

 

As if finally noticing how far off track they have gotten from her original query, she rests her forearms on the tabletop and leans forward on it. “If you want your keys back so badly,” Lydia says to him, lowering her voice to a whisper, “why haven’t you just given me the answer?”

 

Peter has to think about it. In retrospect, torturing her by withholding knowledge is far more effective than what she thinks is torturing him by tailing his steps and showing up in his apartment unannounced. He can use her quest to figure it out to his advantage, even if it is for something small and relatively harmless.

 

“Maybe I don’t think it’s any of your business,” Peter finishes in one of his smart tones before getting up from the booth, and she has to hurry to snatch up her bag if she wants to follow him back out to his vehicle. He wouldn’t leave her stranded here to call a cab or one of her friends, but Lydia doesn’t know that.

 

The drive back to the parking garage of his apartment complex is a silent one. He isn’t sure why. Lydia has been very talkative around him, excepting this moment and the first time they were in her car together as she gave him a ride home from Eichen. He pulls up to her car, remembering what it looks like, and puts his into park and shuts off the engine.

 

“Go home, Lydia,” Peter tells her in the newfound silence. He doesn’t look at her when he says it, his hands still on the steering wheel. “And stop asking questions you don’t really want the answer to.”

 

“What will you do?” Lydia asks. “Now that Derek isn’t around?”

 

Derek is still around, of course, but they both know what she means.

 

“The same thing I did when he wasn’t around before,” Peter answers in a clipped tone. _Sleep_ , echoes his thoughts, because the last time Derek wasn’t around Peter was in a coma. In truth, Peter hasn’t got a plan. Not yet, anyway. He hasn’t had a chance to formulate one, what with Lydia popping in and interrupting his life at unexpected intervals. He wonders what she does with the rest of her day before he cuts off that thought before it becomes something he’s actually curious about.

 

“I’ll see you later,” Lydia finally says, opening the door and heading out. Before Peter can say anything in response, like _don’t come back_ , she has already shut the door in his face. He watches as she gets in her car and drives off, peeling his eyes away from the exit and staring down at the steering wheel where his fingers feel glued to the leather.

 

Peter peels them away, too, a surge of anger pouring through him. He gets out of his vehicle, slamming the door behind himself, and begins to wish he had never put himself inside her head in the first place.

 

 


	4. Works in Progress

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am having _way_ too much fun with this story.

_* * *_

 

The fourth time Lydia surprises him.

 

He is engrossed in a book when he hears a knock at his door. Peter glances up. It throws him off, his arm falters with the book, and he wrinkles his brow and tries to imagine who might be knocking on his door. Peter has no one in his life at the moment aside from Lydia, who dogs his steps at random, but she doesn’t knock. She just waltzes right in like she owns the place.

 

Putting the book aside, he pushes up from the sofa and makes his way across the apartment to open the door.

 

When he sees Lydia standing on the other side, the shock is enough to make his lips part. He doesn’t gape at her, but he’s definitely surprised by this unexpected turn of events.

 

Lydia doesn’t smile, but she presses her lips together. It’s something of a simple gesture, but still kind in nature. “I thought I would knock this time,” she greets him.

 

Peter doesn’t immediately answer her. His throat is dry. He looks away from her, parting the way for Lydia to come into his apartment as he holds the door open. Her show of respect, however small, has surprised him into civility. He closes the door behind her, eyeing Lydia with a newfound interest as she walks across the loft and makes her way towards the sofa. She drops her bag on the end table, sits down on the far side closest to the door, and he finally speaks.

 

“I’m not doing anything but reading a book,” he informs her, and Lydia doesn’t look up at that. She rummages through her bag, pulls out a notebook and pencil, and opens it up.

 

“That’s okay,” Lydia answers absently. “I can do my homework.”

 

It’s surreal. Peter feels an uneasy discomfort in his stomach, but at the same time, he’s in no mood to fight her again. He releases a sigh and crosses the loft, scoops up his book, and takes it into the kitchen so he can read in peace a fair distance away from her.

 

He sits on one of the stools, leans over the counter, and absorbs himself as much as he can in the book. Five pages in, Peter looks up. Lydia is scribbling away with her head tilted forward. He glances back down at his book. Thirteen pages later, he finds himself looking up again. Lydia taps the eraser of her pencil against her chin, pursing her lips.

 

Ripping his eyes away, he focuses on the book one more time. Seven paragraphs after that, Peter catches the way Lydia tucks a few fly away hairs behind her ear before he realizes what he is doing. A slow, deep sigh escapes his nose as he aims his eyes downward again, which draws Lydia’s attention away from her homework and onto him.

 

“Is something wrong?” she asks. Unconcerned, but mildly wary at what could be bothering him.

 

“No, nothing’s wrong,” Peter tells her without looking up from his book. He tries his best to look annoyed at it, hitting the current page with the back of his hand. “Just this stupid . . . ”

 

An amused huff leaves her. “Say no more,” she says in complete understanding.

 

When things fall into peaceful silence again, Peter manages to get as far as twelve paragraphs until he’s not looking at the page anymore but staring at Lydia.

 

It’s not sexual. He isn’t ogling her, but there is an obvious interest in the way he regards the swift arc of her pencil, the pinched look of concentration on her face, the way she has completely let down her guard around a man—a _werewolf_ —who not only tore his teeth into her side on the lacrosse field of Beacon Hills High but attempted to kill one of her friends just months prior to this moment.

 

And she’s sitting in his apartment, doing her homework.

 

The thought would be absurdly laughable if only it isn’t taking place at this exact moment.

 

As much as Peter observes the current quandary with abject interest, that interest soon turns rogue as his eyes travel over the intricate braid in her hair and passes upward, inspecting each and every delicate wave and curl until—

 

He drops the book with a sound _clap_ against the countertop and buries his face in his hands, groaning aloud.

 

“That’s some intense book,” Lydia says from across the room.

 

Peter drags his hands down his face and opens his eyes to see her gazing at him with an expression that says she isn’t quite sure if she should be concerned about his behavior or amused by his reaction. He drops his hands to the counter with a slap and stares back.

 

“Why are you here?” he asks.

 

Of course, it’s the same damn question he has been asking her every time, and he knows the basics by now. Scott sent her, Scott made a copy of his keys, Scott gave the keys to Lydia because she agreed, no one else would, but that still doesn’t tell him _why_ she is here. It only tells him how.

 

Lydia narrows her eyes. “I’ve already told you.”

 

“No, you told me _how_ you got here,” Peter reaffirms, jabbing a finger down at the countertop. His anger is low for now, just barely simmering beneath the surface but there. He doesn’t want it to get out of hand, but sometimes he has fits of rage he can’t contain, a string of impulsive moments he can’t take back. “You haven’t told me _why_ you’re here.”

 

Lydia closes her notebook over her pencil and moves it aside. “I did,” she says in a much calmer voice than him, unafraid. “I already told you I’m here to keep an eye on you. That’s why.”

 

Peter’s stare doesn’t falter. “What do you get out of it?”

 

Lydia draws in a sharp breath and cocks her head. “Believe it or not, Peter, not everyone expects to gain something when they do a favor.”

 

“Scott’s not your boss, Lydia,” Peter taunts her. “You don’t have to do what he says.”

 

“No, but he is my friend,” Lydia counters, her eyes never leaving his. There is a challenge set in her gaze, daring him to take this further than he already has with her. Peter wants to accept her challenge and barrel ahead, but he is still and quiet as they stare each other down from distant points across the loft.

 

His smile is saccharine sweet, his eyes creasing at the corners. “What are friends for,” he says.

 

Lydia picks up her notebook again, opening it and letting the pencil roll into her hand. She tears her eyes away from him and focuses back on the problem in front of her instead of him. After about a minute or two of staring at Lydia working on her homework again, Peter pulls his eyes away and picks up his book again. He doesn’t have anything else to do right now. If he tries to leave to get away from her, she will only follow.

 

He reads his book like he’s interested in it, but his attention is only halfway there on the page.

 

The other half is clear across the room, obsessing over the predicament with red hair and a pencil scratch that sounds like claw marks against the wall.

 

-

 

Peter does the only thing he knows how to do in a situation like this.

 

He confronts the source of it.

 

Normally, he would be suave about it. Peter was born with a silver tongue, and he has a penchant for finding his way around problems without using any direct confrontation, but this case is more complicated in that matter because the source of the problem is a dense teenage boy with no warmth and no tolerance for Peter.

 

Scott locked him away in Eichen House. Despite the change of administration, he doesn’t want a repeat of that situation.

 

Peter knocks, because he’s at least that polite, and it doesn’t take long before it’s answered by a very startled Stiles Stilinski.

 

Stiles yells at the sight of him and half darts back behind the door as he yanks on it like it will serve as a shield, causing Peter to lift his eyebrows. The fiasco ends with Stiles still gripping the handle but using the door as a barrier between them, a squinted gaze full of distrust aimed at Peter.

 

“Scott!” Stiles drawls out, hollering over his shoulder without removing his eyes from Peter. “You might wanna come see this!”

 

“Hello, Stiles,” Peter says, offering a friendly smile.

 

“Go to hell, Peter,” Stiles throws back, making a weak finger gun gesture at him. “Literally. Figuratively. Metaphorically. All the lee’s. I’m sure you can manage that, being a slimy bastard and all.”

 

“Still bitter, I see?”

 

Stiles cracks in the face, a touch of anger coming to the surface, but before he can say anything in response, Scott emerges from behind Stiles with a relaxed gait at first. “Hey, what’s going on, ma—” Scott’s eyes land on Peter, and he freezes, his mouth falls open, and he stares stupidly at Peter. “ . . . Peter,” he finally says.

 

“Scott,” Peter says back, greeting him with the smallest fraction of a head tilt.

 

Stiles doesn’t notice it, but Scott acknowledges it. The boy is more of a wolf than he likes to admit to himself, but he raises his chin higher at Peter’s small display of submission and peace. “Are you here for a reason?” Scott asks next, and Peter obliges him with a straightforward answer.

 

“Yes,” he admits. “I came to talk to you.” Peter glances at Stiles. “Privately.”

 

“Uh-uh,” Stiles protests. “I am _not_ leaving—”

 

“Stiles,” Scott says. His voice is firm, but his eyes don’t leave Peter.

 

Stiles is shell-shocked, his mouth dropping open. “Scott, you can’t _seriously_ —”

 

Scott looks at Stiles, all calm composure. “I can handle Peter,” he tells his friend, and Peter watches with mild interest as Stiles acts like a scorned lover, glancing back and forth between the two of them with disbelief and derision written all over his features.

 

“Fine,” Stiles snaps. “I’ll be up in your room, dungeon raiding on my _own_.”

 

Stiles stalks away, and both of them listen for the retreating footsteps until Stiles is far away from their imminent conversation. Peter’s eyes curve upward as the stomping sounds reach the bedroom on the second floor and stop there. When he looks back down, Scott is regarding him in a serene manner, narrowed eyes but a loose posture. He is not alarmed by Peter’s presence at his home. He’s definitely curious, though.

 

“What are you doing here, Peter?” Scott finally asks.

 

“I came to talk to you about your little _ploy_ to keep an eye on me,” Peter informs him.

 

Scott looks confused, his sure expression faltering. “What?”

 

“Don’t play dumb,” Peter accuses. “I know it comes naturally for you, Scott, but I’m in a bad mood over this and I’d like to get it over with as quickly as possible and get back to my life. Can we agree on that?”

 

Scott partially gapes at him, narrowing his eyes even further. He looks at Peter as if Peter has just grown a second head, which only makes the anger surge through him worse than before. “ . . . Okay,” Scott finally says. He doesn’t say anything else, leaving the continuation to Peter.

 

“I want you,” Peter says firmly, taking another step closer to Scott, “to tell Lydia Martin that you no longer need her to follow me.” Peter raises his eyebrows, nods his head at Scott. “Sound good?”

 

Scott’s eyes explode into the size of saucers in his head, mouth falling wide open. He blinks once, then twice, and his face twists with apprehension.

 

“Got it?” Peter urges, needing some kind of verbalization out of Scott.

 

“Uh . . . um . . . ” Scott stutters, looking positively thrown. Out of nowhere, Scott starts nodding in quick succession. “Sure,” he adds. “Absolutely. No problem. I can do that. Yeah, I can do that. I’ll . . . I’ll let her know immediately. As soon as I see her.” Scott nods again. “Yeah. Yeah, of course.”

 

Peter narrows his eyes. That was too easy. He has a strange feeling about this in his gut, so he pushes forward to see Scott’s reactions to what he has to say. “No more showing up in the middle of the night,” he tells Scott. Scott blanches. “I like to sleep in peace.”

 

Scott nods, the movement barely perceptible.

 

“I like to have breakfast alone,” Peter adds. Scott fights to keep his face in check. “I like to go out. Alone.” He leans in closer, lowering his voice to a whisper. “I like to shower without someone _watching_ me.”

 

Okay, so the last part is a lie, but it’s worth it for the way in which Scott clams up in absolute terror. Scott’s hand crushes the door handle. Peter hears the creak as it dents in Scott’s tightening grasp.

 

Scott didn’t send Lydia.

 

Peter leans back, smiling at him again. “Okay?” he asks.

 

Scott nods. “Okay,” he says, barely getting the word out. He looks as if someone just rammed a sword into his gut, all the blood leaving his face and giving him a corpselike pallor. His cheeks even seem gaunter by comparison, but that might just be Peter’s vivid imagination.

 

Peter takes a step back from Scott, feeling his work here is almost done. He just needs to poke around a little bit more. “So, what has she told you so far?”

 

Scott is silent for a beat, eyes flitting. “What?”

 

That word again. Peter sighs.

 

“She’s been following me to report back to you, and you ask me what?” It’s too much fun. More fun than it should be, anyway, because Peter is going to let Scott think he believes him. Because if Peter lets Scott know of any sign that he doesn’t believe him, Scott will get involved for sure, and now Peter’s curious. He wants to know exactly why Lydia is doing this, who else might have sent her, and why she hid it from him.

 

Why she lied and said it was Scott when Scott clearly knows nothing about it.

 

“You sent her,” Peter continues, “to follow _me_. To tell you every little thing I do and every little thing I say, and I made sure it was a boring report.” Peter crosses his arms. “Which part was your favorite?”

 

It’s a test. Peter just wants to see how devoted Scott is to passing it for his friend, for Lydia.

 

Scott straightens his face at last and gives Peter an ominous stare. “Like you said, it was a boring report.”

 

Peter grins. Flying colors. “I’m glad we had this talk, Scott.”

 

“You can leave now,” Scott tells him, his voice firming up again.

 

Peter takes a step back, one after another, all the while keeping his eyes on Scott. “Have a good night,” he calls out once he is a few feet away, and Peter raises his eyes to the second story bedroom window to see Stiles gazing down at him from above with the curtain drawn back and blatant contempt written across his face. “With your dungeon raiding,” Peter adds, giving them both a cheeky look, and then he turns on his heels and hits the sidewalk.

 

He feels their eyes on his back the whole time he is walking away.

 

Peter doesn’t look back. He walks because the night is young and cool, and he’d rather do this than drive. With his hands in his pockets, he mulls over his recent findings. He isn’t sure why Lydia lied to him about the source of her motivation. Scott seemed the most likely candidate to suggest such a task, and then it strikes Peter.

 

Derek could be a possibility, too.

 

Derek would do it, but no one would suspect him. He trusts Peter even less than Scott these days. A tail from Derek would make sense. Maybe even more sense than Scott. Scott treats Peter with mild neglect, choosing to ignore him than even acknowledge him. Derek would also have access to Peter’s keys. He could have easily made a copy for Lydia. And Derek, as much as he’s changed over the last year, still doesn’t have the same level of compassion and worry for Lydia as Scott has for her. It wouldn’t cross his mind that prompting Lydia to do this could potentially put her in danger.

 

Unless Derek believes Peter wouldn’t, hopefully, stoop to that level again. But it is a big gamble for someone like him to make over someone else’s life.

 

While Peter could confront Scott without things turning into a massacre, he can’t promise himself the same with Derek. He won’t be able to go there after Derek’s last warning to him. His best bet will be to divulge his confrontation with Scott to Lydia and weasel it out of her, if Scott doesn’t get to her first. Peter is sure Scott will talk to her about it. After all, Peter branded a few choice images into Scott’s brain that he won’t soon forget.

 

Scott had no idea what Lydia’s been up to in her free time, neither has Stiles, and maybe their combined reactions alone will scare Lydia out of visiting Peter again out of embarrassment or horror over what Peter told Scott. Then again, she might have a few choice words for Peter about what he said to her friend. A smirk curls at the corner of his mouth as he pictures her alight with fury, all flushed crimson to match her pretty hair.

 

That would be far more interesting than Lydia disappearing for good. Peter can’t imagine that. She’s too much of spitfire to let that one lie.

 

He stuffs his hands deeper in his pockets, burying his neck into the collar of his jacket, and smiles all the way home.

 

 


	5. Tethers

_* * *_

 

Knocking _thumps_ through the apartment, loud raps in quick succession, followed by the buzzer sounding off in rapid-fire with the press of a thumb.

 

At this point, Peter’s not even going to try and pretend that he doesn’t know who is on the other side of the door. He practically ensured her return for at least one more time thanks to that little stunt he pulled on Scott. He has even been waiting for it, Peter thinks gleefully, getting up from his spot on the stool as he sucks the barbeque sauce off his thumb.

 

It isn’t as if he has much of anything else to spice up his life at the moment.

 

He opens it to see a fuming Lydia. All composure on the outside, but her eyes are livid fire and her lips are too tight. Peter smiles because it’s easy, and then he lets it fall just slightly as he takes in her expression.

 

“You look like you’ve had a stressful day,” he says.

 

Lydia raises her chin and gives him one of her signature looks that says she isn’t taking any of his shit today, and she also remains perfectly calm. Placing nothing more than a hand on her hip, Lydia doesn’t move from the doorway as she asks, “What did you tell Scott?”

 

Peter does have to look away at that to partially keep up pretenses for a moment. He isn’t going to lie to her, but he at least wants to get a little bit of fun out of it. “I simply confronted him about you following me,” Peter tells her, “and inviting yourself over here for unwarranted amounts of time while I have better things I could be doing than playing gracious host.”

 

Lydia isn’t having any of it. Her hand remains firmly on her hip. Her head tilts to the side, and every sharp angle of her face becomes pronounced under the death glare she aims at Peter. “You told him I came over at night,” she accuses. “While you were sleeping.”

 

“Well,” he defends himself, “I _was_ sleeping.”

 

“You told him I ate breakfast with you.”

 

“Technically, you did that one time—”

 

“You told him that I _watched_ you,” Lydia fumes, “in the _shower_.”

 

Peter furrows his brow thoughtfully, rubbing his chin. “Okay, so maybe that part was a bit of an embellishment—”

 

“Do you think this is funny, Peter?” Lydia asks in disbelief.

 

He cocks his head as he regards her with another smile, and he can’t help it. “I’m enjoying this, yes.”

 

“Well, guess what,” Lydia adds sweetly, batting her eyelashes at him. She smiles, but it’s sardonic with a touch of sour. “It didn’t work, sweetheart. I told Scott the truth, and we’re still on.” She pushes past Peter into his apartment, avoiding the bump into him with a graceful curve that lets her slip past without shouldering him in the chest. Peter bends back out of the way, but his eyes follow Lydia with blatant shock.

 

He isn’t disappointed per se that she isn’t leaving him alone. After all, what does his life go back to after that? Empty rooms, empty halls, wide enough to echo his paranoid thoughts back at him, driving him insane? Peter doesn’t realize it until just then, but he welcomes the sense of predictability and stability Lydia brings into his life with her routine visits. It grounds Peter. Reminds him he’s a person. He talks and interacts with so few people that it’s easy for him to exclude himself from their numbers and think of himself as different, as superior, but then Lydia comes along and reminds him that he is one, too.

 

She definitely gives him a run for his money, though, with her resolve to see this through to whatever end is in store, whether it’s by her or her accomplice.

 

Peter waits for her to get comfortable. Still, he doesn’t say anything. He closes the door to his loft and makes his way back into the kitchen, finishing off the buffalo wings he ordered as takeout. Peter can cook, but he prefers not to. Any excuse to avoid the smell of burnt anything is his preferred method of eating. He bites into another wing, hearing Lydia’s voice over the silence permeating throughout the den between them.

 

“Is it really that easy for you?”

 

Peter pauses, looking up with raised eyebrows. She is sitting on his couch again, textbook out and reading. There is a piece of paper hanging off the edge, a pencil in her hand, but she is only holding it and not using it at the moment. “Eating?” Peter asks, playing dumb. “Of course, see you take the food and—”

 

“Just like that?” Lydia barrels forward, ignoring the joke. “No argument?”

 

Peter sighs and drops his food, grabbing a napkin to wipe off his hands. He tries to think of a way to forward the conversation without her turning it against him. Sure, he hasn’t given an argument. He doesn’t think he wants to anymore. If she wants to be here so badly and she fills in the emptiness Derek left behind, then Peter has nothing to gain from pushing her away. Peace maybe, but certainly not quiet; she keeps to herself sometimes when she is over, never actually bothering him, so he has all the quiet he needs, and when has there ever been a day in his life that he longed for peace?

 

“I know a secret Scott doesn’t know,” Peter finally says, looking at her. He tosses the napkin aside. “Scott didn’t send you.”

 

The truth bomb is as satisfying as he thought it would be. Lydia’s pupils dilate for only a second, and then she hardens her expression with skepticism. “What are you talking about, Peter?” Across the room, he can hear a raised heartbeat.

 

 _Ah_ , Peter thinks, _so she doesn’t want me to know_.

 

“I know a lie when I hear one,” Peter tells her, “and Scott’s a horrible liar. He had no idea about what you were up to, but I let him believe that I had no idea when I left. I figured he would have a talk with you and ask you to drop whatever it is you’re doing. ‘He’s dangerous, Lydia. You don’t know what you’re getting into.’ Sound familiar?”

 

Lydia faces the situation with grace. “Who sent me, then?”

 

Peter smiles at her and crosses his arms, leaning forward on the counter. “That’s something I’m still trying to figure out,” he says, a twinkle in his eyes. This is the fun part, seeing how she reacts to this.

 

Does she stay, or does she run?

 

Lydia holds his gaze for almost a minute, her jaw flexing and then tightening as she bites down. He sees a muscle jump at the corner, and then Lydia looks down into her lap and closes her book and stands up. She slides the book into her bag along with the pencil, shoulders it, and hurries toward the door.

 

It’s not a panicked run, but she is quick about it.

 

Peter slides off the stool and hurries after her, reaching the door at the same time as Lydia and slapping his hand against it as she halts in front of it. He stands right beside her, soaking up the tension that rolls off of her in waves against him. It’s a little intoxicating, if unexpected. Peter thought Lydia had the gall to see this through, but he has unnerved her, and that’s even better.

 

“Let me pass,” Lydia says without looking at him, and it’s not out of fear. Lydia isn’t afraid of him in the slightest. She is just trying to be tough. Looking at him might ruin the act and give her away, and that intoxicates him even more. Peter doesn’t realize it until that moment, that he would want to see her looking at him like that at all, but he buries the knowledge down. “I have a paper to write,” she lies. He hears it, but he doesn’t challenge it.

 

“Who sent you?” Peter asks, lowering his voice.

 

That does earn him a look from her. Suddenly, Lydia curves her head to him and her eyes glint with a sparkle of hidden knowledge of her own. Peter stares back at her, hearing the jingle of keys as she pulls them out of her bag without taking her eyes from him, and then she holds them up in between them for just a second to let him see. Peter glances down at them, and Lydia tears them away as quickly as she brought them out, pocketing them again.

 

“If you really wanted your keys back, Peter,” Lydia whispers, “you would have snatched them off of me by now. You have werewolf strength, and I’m just a girl, after all.” She bats her lashes at him with a perfunctory smile because they both know the truth. She isn’t just a girl. She is a banshee, but the word never passes either of their lips.

 

The worst part is she’s right. If she hands them out to him right now, Peter isn’t so sure he would even grab them. Because if he has his keys back, would she still come over? Would he still see her?

 

“We both know you’re not just a girl,” Peter says, shaking his head just slightly. When did the air feel so electrically charged? He feels drawn to her. “You might zap me, and then where will I be?”

 

“Against the wall?” Lydia offers, smirking, but her words paint a much different picture for him than the image she intended.

 

“Why don’t you test your theory?” Peter challenges her, wanting to see if she’ll take the bait.

 

Lydia stares him down, a sure expression on her face, but he hears her heartbeat pounding again in his eardrums. This close it’s harder to ignore.

 

She doesn’t take her eyes off of him as she reaches for the keys again. Peter hears them rattle as she pulls them out, and Lydia raises her hand between them. The keys glimmer in the sunlight from the windows, and Peter glances down. There is no urge to seize them from her, another shocking revelation for him, but Peter slowly reaches out anyway.

 

His fingers barely graze the metal, and Lydia yanks her hand back in the air. She smirks at him as he raises his eyes to her, daring him to try and snatch them, but it’s a fool’s move. Peter’s hand falls off the door, and he moves into her personal space, encroaching until Lydia takes a step back from him and hits the wall right behind her in the small entryway by the door. Her hair bounces as she hits it, her eyes blink suddenly, and she draws in a quick breath. He notices all these things with their close proximity, catching the natural scent of her skin beneath perfume and shampoo, and leans in slowly towards her.

 

Lydia draws quickly away from him, making an escape by darting to the left out of his way. She snatches the door open, and Peter looks over his shoulder at her, but he makes no move to stop her. She pauses for only a moment in the doorway to stare at him, facing Peter with ragged breathing in her chest, before she pulls it shut and cuts off the open space between him and her.

 

Just like that, she’s gone.

 

Peter stands there for a while until he realizes his own breathing is irregular, and then he tears himself away from the door and tries not to think about what just happened between them. Nothing really happened, but that’s not entirely true. A lot of things can be revealed in small moments, in small increments, and he isn’t sure what it means that his hands itch to be in her hair as his nose and mouth press against her neck, dragging from jaw to the soft spot behind her ear.

 

His fingers curl into fists against his palm, and he flexes them outward again. He didn’t snatch the keys away from her, but maybe Lydia knows why now.

 

Peter wonders if he’ll see her again or if his actions chased her away, but that too he tries not to think about. It wasn’t as if he actually got to do anything.

 

She still has his keys, too.

 

Maybe she’ll be back.

 

Peter walks past his couch and pauses, glancing down at the notebook laying on top of the cushions, accidentally forgotten in her escape attempt. He bends over and scoops it up, flipping through it to find important class notes scribbled down on the pages and smirks to himself, shutting the notebook.

 

 _She’ll be back_ , Peter thinks as he crosses the loft with her notebook in hand, and he will hide this so Lydia can’t slip in and out to collect it if he isn’t there when she comes by.

 

Some things simply aren’t above him.

 

-

 

Nightmares aren’t commonplace for Peter anymore, especially since coming back from the dead. He had them often and frequently while in a coma, so they came and went as they pleased through his brain, driving him more and more insane with each passing day, and there was little he could do to fight them off.

 

Rebirth had an effect on him, cleansing most of the dirt away. In many ways, he really was a new man when he arose from the grave. Peter wasn’t _different_ , but he was new. He wasn’t sure if was the Alpha spark, or if it was the ritual, or if it was something Lydia has unknowingly and inherently added to the equation. Maybe it was a combination of all three. Anyway, nightmares are rare for him.

 

One hits him tonight in his sleep, though. His sleep is dreamless at first. At least, he can’t remember dreaming of anything before the dark landscape slowly emits a glow from the corners of his vision, and then Peter sees the fire licking up the walls and his eyes follow it, thinking _why now_. After all this time, why now?

 

The scent of smoke fills his nostrils, inflaming him.

 

He sees shadows moving inside the flames, hears the screaming, and tries to run from them. Only there isn’t any running in this dream, only slow movement, like walking through water, and then he’s on the ground, on his stomach. All around, the floorboards are burning and smoking, but he doesn’t feel it. He only sees it, and panic rises up in him because any moment he’ll _feel_ it, and he _knows_ it, and he’ll be back in that _hospital_ bed, screaming in his head.

 

The contempt that fills him is overshadowed by fear, though, and he grasps the burning boards, trying to crawl, but they break in his hands, and he screams. He screams because mental is more powerful than physical, and there is no pain, but there _could_ be; there could be, and he’ll be trapped in his mind all over again, all over again, with no escape from the fire.

 

The panic is more real than anything, and he chokes on his own sobs as he fights to crawl out of it.

 

 _Peter_ , a frightened voice calls out to him, and then it comes again. **_Peter_**. Stronger this time, and he looks up through blurry flames licking up around his vision. A girl’s voice, and he remembers whose voice it is in the house. He remembers who had called out to him, crying from the corner and surrounded by flames.

 

“Cora,” Peter calls back, throat scratchy, and some of his strength returns to him. “Cora,” he says again, louder, and crawls towards it. “ _Cora_ —”

 

As if breaking through water to the surface, Peter flies upward out of the flames and into complete darkness around him, struggling through sheets holding him down and sweating despite the cool air that chills his damp skin. His heart feels as though it might rupture in his chest, and he calls out instinctively in the dark, “ . . . Cora?”

 

Seeing no one in the darkness of his loft, which feels more like a dream than the actual dream, Peter freezes in complete stillness.

 

“Peter?” a small voice speaks to the right—and he jumps, turning toward it but also pulling away, because who could that be if it’s not Cora, and it’s _not_ Cora, he knows Cora’s voice, and that’s not her and there is no fire burning around him but he is still scared like an animal might be scared, so he’s in panic mode.

 

His eyes adjust quickly to the darkness, but he picks up the scent before he ever sees the face. _Smoke_ , distinct and wafting from the little shadow to his right.

 

“Peter,” she says again, concern coloring her voice, and he finally acknowledges that it’s Lydia in the dark, in his apartment, and he has no idea what she is doing here in the middle of the night, but he’s resentful of her seeing him in this state. He pulls further away from her, covering his face and rubbing his hands over it. His hands are shaking, he realizes.

 

Peter remains like that, bent forward over his knees with his face in his hands.

 

“Peter,” Lydia tries once more. “Are you okay?”

 

He barely feels the bed sink in, but he jumps again when a hand lightly touches his back and he jerks away from it. His head flies up, and he snaps, “Don’t _touch_ me.”

 

Her hand hovers above his back, a few inches away, tense in the air. Lydia pulls her hand back to herself. “You sounded like you were having a nightmare.”

 

A long stretch of silence passes between them as Peter refuses to answer her. He tries to calm his nerves and stop from shaking. After a few minutes of neither of them moving, Peter finally gets up from the bed in one quick move, glad for the fact that he wears t-shirts and boxers to bed at night.

 

He makes it halfway across the loft to stand by the sofa when he bites out, “So, you break into my apartment at night now?”

 

“I came back for my notebook,” Lydia says from the bed. “I forgot it earlier.”

 

“Thought you could find it easier while it’s pitch black instead of daylight?”

 

Lydia gets up from the bed. He hears a _click_ and glances over his shoulder as a flashlight beam strikes the wall from her hand. “I brought this,” she says. “I have a test tomorrow. I needed to study.” Lydia is silent for a few seconds. “I couldn’t find it. Did you move it?”

 

Peter looks back at the windows along the wall. He breathes in and out, trying to steady himself, and stares out of them at the night hanging over the city.

 

“You smell like smoke,” he says.

 

In the silence he hears as Lydia sniffs herself. Peter wonders if realization hits her that it was her fault; her scent triggered the nightmare, and his skin feels clammy out in the open air. He shouldn’t feel this cold after waking up from a nightmare about the fire, but he does. His skin feels like ice.

 

“I was at a bonfire,” Lydia answers softly, a small measure of guilt clouding her words. Realization does hit her. She was probably snooping around his loft for a while with her flashlight until he caught the scent in his sleep. “I’m sorry. I didn’t . . . ”

 

Peter snaps from his trance in front of the windows and stalks into the kitchen to open the cupboard he stored her notebook in. She wouldn’t have thought to look in one of the cupboards, but he doesn’t care right now how it might look. He just wants her gone. He wants to sleep in peace without her waking him up like this over and over again. It’s only the second time, but what if there’s a third time? A fourth time? A fifth time?

 

How many times must she disturb his sleep before she’s happy with herself? It’s not that which has him so shaken, it’s the nightmare, but he isn’t about to admit it so soon. Easier to lay the blame on her doorstep, on her intrusiveness, than to admit his dreams can still affect him so deeply.

 

He’s angry with the revelation.

 

Peter reaches her in stride, shoving the notebook out toward Lydia. “Take it,” he grinds out. “Take it and get out.”

 

Lydia appears torn and mildly upset, but not at his harshness. Maybe at herself more than anything for causing it. Slowly, she takes the notebook from his hand. As soon as she has it in her grasp, Peter turns immediately and walks away from her again. He avoids his bed, not wishing to go back to sleep so soon, and stands in front of the windows. He waits for her to leave.

 

She doesn’t, standing in the same spot he left her in.

 

He crosses one arm over his chest, props an elbow on it, and holds his chin. Peter doesn’t want to repeat himself, hoping she’ll take his cue and relieve herself from his company, but he hears her footsteps slowly cross the loft until she is standing behind him.

 

“It was the fire, wasn’t it?”

 

Peter ignores her question. “I thought I told you to leave,” he says, which doesn’t come out as firm as he wants it to. Maybe Lydia hears it, too. Maybe that’s what causes her to do the foolish thing she does next in an attempt to comfort him.

 

Her hand reaches out, warm fingers and palm pressing against his back. As soon as they touch him, Peter whirls around on Lydia, his shoulder and arm knocking into her and causing her to stagger away from him. It’s instinctual, his movement on her, and he only realizes it after the fact. He didn’t mean to knock into her.

 

He also doesn’t apologize for it, though.

 

She shouldn’t have come here in the middle of the night smelling like smoke. She shouldn’t have touched him after he told her not to.

 

Lydia stares at him in the dark, wide eyes as she clenches her fist to her chest. It isn’t fear or horror he sees staring back at him, but she draws away. Lydia looks elsewhere at random, clutching her notebook close to her body, and turns around to leave. Peter watches until she makes it to the door. He keeps staring, never moving from his spot, even as she turns around and stares back at him before shutting the door quietly behind herself.

 

Peter stares at the doorway long after she’s gone and stands still for even longer. His gaze has already fallen when he realizes he’s just standing there like a statue, and he lowers himself carefully to the floor, one hand pressed to it as a leg slips out from underneath him. He sits hunched over, knees raised, and stares off with the moonlight against his back.

 

He runs his hands through his hair and lowers his head to his knees.

 

He doesn’t want to be weak, certainly doesn’t want to let it show, certainly does not want to be seen in that position by another person—and the shake returns to his shoulders, but it’s okay, because he’s alone. No one’s here. Lydia’s gone, and he can allow himself this moment of weakness in a multitude of moments where he is always anything but. He hasn’t been as strong since his time spent in Eichen House. He hasn’t been as strong since Valack got into his head and played with his brain.

 

But being weak, even when he is all by himself, isn’t something he can deal with very well yet. Through a burst of rage, Peter reaches forward and drives his fist into the floor. He’s angry. Angry at himself for his lack of control, at the burning in his eyes from what he blames on the _smoke_ , at the way in which Lydia reached out to him, showing him compassion for his _weakness_.

 

Peter stays on the floor all night until his eyelids flutter from exhaustion, and he crawls up into a standing position to take to the sofa instead of his bed.

 

He is out in a matter of minutes, breathing in a scent of jasmine and myrrh.

 

 


	6. It's in the Fine Print

_* * *_

 

She doesn’t come by for another two weeks.

 

Peter starts to worry by the fifth day, darting eyes toward the door in expectation of something that never comes. By the ninth day, his foot develops a nervous tap, and by the tenth day, he chews on his nails. Come the thirteenth day, Peter paces across his loft, rubs his hands over his face, and sighs multiple times in a row.

 

On the fourteenth day, he snatches up his keys and jacket and takes an elevator down to his vehicle in the parking garage. He slides his jacket on during the ride down, and the satisfying _beep beep_ of unlocking the doors rings through his ears a moment later when he presses the button on his key ring. In a matter of minutes, he drives through the city to the picturesque suburb where Lydia and her mother still live. The house is the same as he last remembers it, only it looks more empty on the outside like some of the shrubbery and garden decorations have been torn from the lawn, leaving it more bare than it used to be.

 

Parking on the curb instead of behind the car in the driveway, Peter shuts off the engine before he asks himself in his head what is he doing here. He only gives it a moment’s pause before he exits the vehicle, shutting the door behind him. The longer he thinks about it, he’ll end up changing his mind.

 

He makes it to the door and knocks, only realizing within that final moment how incredibly stupid this whole idea is, especially when the door opens up to reveal Lydia on the other side.

 

She gapes at him, eyes blown wide, and just barely remembers to breathe about three seconds later. “What . . . ” Words fail her, but not for long. “What are you doing here?” Lydia doesn’t even ask how he remembers the way, which Peter is grateful for. _Small blessings_ , he thinks.

 

He opens his mouth, prepared to say something, but lingers on a breath. Despite knowing what he was going to say, he pauses.

 

“You didn’t come by,” Peter finally settles on telling her.

 

It doesn’t erase the look on her face. It just makes it worse. “So, you came to my _house_?”

 

He frowns, furrowing his brow. “Well, when you put it like that . . . ”

 

Lydia steps out quickly, closing the door almost all the way shut behind her. Her hand remains on the doorknob to hold it, her back to the door, and Peter doesn’t step away in order to give her more space. She must’ve expected him to back up. The end result is an ill at ease, too close Lydia eyeing his chest as she rethinks her last decision.

 

She looks up at him. “My mother is home. What if she sees—”

 

“Lydia,” calls out an older, female voice, “who’s at the door?”

 

Lydia draws in a deep breath, shoulders rising and eyes widening as she stares at Peter in apprehension for their current situation. He sees nothing wrong with it, though. So what, he met her mother once before. It was some time ago. She may not even remember him.

 

Despite Lydia’s grip on the handle, Miss Martin pulls open the door and starts at the sight before her. She smiles, though, a little confused but pleasant. “Oh,” she says, staring at Peter. She isn’t sure what to say at first, but her smile, if puzzled, is warm. “Peter, right?”

 

Peter grins, falling easily into the situation unlike Lydia. “Yes, it’s Peter,” he says as he holds out his hand. His arm brushes Lydia’s, snapping her out of her trance and causing her to move aside to create more room. Miss Martin shakes his hand as she beams at him.

 

“From the Health Department?” her mother pushes, glancing over at Lydia. She returns her gaze to Peter, still confused but pleasant. “May I ask what brings you here?”

 

“I’m writing a paper,” Lydia intervenes, thinking quickly on the spot, “for one of my classes. Peter is helping me with it, Mom. Do you remember that outbreak at the school a few months back? Well, it’s about the short-term localized effects of aggressive quarantine strategies and how it can affect otherwise healthy patients by subjecting them to contaminated areas during outbreaks and how that affects the viruses’ reproduction and immunity and our ability to combat it.” Lydia bites her lips together. “Peter, being with the Health Department, has been helping me with the information for my paper.”

 

Miss Martin’s eyes light up at that, and her smile grows. “Ah,” she replies. “Well, in that case, why don’t you come in for dinner?”

 

Peter grins, glancing from Miss Martin to Lydia, and then back to her mother. “I would love to,” he says.

 

“Mom,” Lydia cuts in. “Peter really should be going. He has an appoint—”

 

“It can wait,” Peter says, brushing her off. He follows Miss Martin into the house, leaving Lydia to get the door. She follows quickly behind them, hurrying to catch up, as if to keep an eye or ear on him around her mother. He doesn’t particularly mind, soaking in the revamped look of the place and the change of the photos on the walls. Mr. Martin is now missing from most of them unless it’s a photo of the three of them together or just him with Lydia as a child.

 

“I’m almost done,” Miss Martin calls to him over her shoulder. “If you want, you can wait in the dining room. It’s straight ahead on the left. Lydia, would you be kind enough to show him?”

 

Peter continues ahead anyway, passing through the kitchen straight to the dining room. The table is already laid out with empty glasses, white napkins, and bare plates. As he turns around, Lydia comes up behind him, her fists clenching at her sides.

 

“Why are you staying?” she asks below her breath.

 

Peter cocks his head at her, surveying her with an interested expression. “Maybe to have dinner with two beautiful ladies?”

 

“Is this is a game to you?”

 

“Why does everything have to be a game, Lydia?” Peter counters. “Maybe I like being around other people. Have you ever considered that?” He turns away from her, feeling his expression sour for just a moment, and continues to examine the new layout and commit it to memory.

 

“Lydia, can you come help me?” her mother calls from the kitchen.

 

Peter turns around in time to see Lydia sigh and bite her lip again, a nervous tick of hers if she ever did have one, and stare at him for a long while before turning on her heels to walk out of the room and join her mother. Peter busies himself by being nosey and inspecting things around the dining room until they both come back from the kitchen, carrying food in hand.

 

The dinner itself is rather enjoyable, and the food is good. For the most part, he talks with Miss Martin while Lydia pokes the food around on her plate and holds her temple in her palm, staring at them with a blank enough expression that does not draw the attention of her mother down on her. Miss Martin tries to involve Lydia, but Lydia resorts to curt comments and silence outside of them.

 

By the end of it, Peter insists on helping them clean up, which makes Miss Martin beam at him and Lydia roll her eyes so hard Peter wonders if they’ll fall out. She stalks out, leaving them alone for a moment. Peter goes to follow, plate and cup in hand, when Miss Martin stops him with a gentle palm on his forearm.

 

Peter turns to look at her. She is smiling more friendly than before, and when she speaks, well, she is definitely flirting. “You should come over again some time,” Miss Martin suggests, letting her hand rub his arm. “For dinner, you know? It’s nice having a man around—”

 

From the open walkway, Lydia clears her throat. “Mom, stop flirting,” she says.

 

Miss Martin looks scandalized. “ _Lydia_ —”

 

Peter, however, is absolutely amused. He grins, of course, preferring to read this as a touch of jealousy until the unthinkable happens.

 

“He’s gay,” Lydia blurts out.

 

That wipes the grin right off his face.

 

As he turns to Lydia to glare in disbelief, Lydia’s mom grasps his arm and gasps. “Oh!” she says. “Oh, I didn’t know! I feel like such a fool! I am so sorry, Peter. I don’t have—oh, what are they calling it these days—gaydar?” She pats his arm. “But I’m completely supportive of gay rights. Just ask Lydia.”

 

It’s very soccer mom. Peter glares at Lydia as she smiles sweetly in response.

 

“It’s all right,” Peter says, never taking his eyes off Lydia. “No harm, no foul.”

 

Lydia walks right up to Peter to pluck the plate and glass out of his hands with a smirk on her face. She leaves to go into the kitchen, and Miss Martin follows her daughter’s footsteps. Peter brings them the rest, but her mother insists that he go sit down and relax while they do the cleaning, and Lydia interrupts.

 

“Hey, Mom, why don’t you go sit down and relax,” Lydia says, running the sink, “and Peter and I will clean up?”

 

“And make our guest do all the work?”

 

Peter smiles at Miss Martin. “I don’t mind at all,” he says. He glances at Lydia as she looks back at him, and then he begins to roll up his sleeves. “I like being kept busy.”

 

While Miss Martin reluctantly agrees after some more convincing from Lydia, it leaves the two of them alone in the kitchen, Lydia washing and Peter rinsing and stacking as they stand side by side in silence at first.

 

“Is there any reason why you told your mother I’m gay?” Peter finally inquires.

 

“You do strike me as at least the curious type,” Lydia piques up, handing him a dish to rinse.

 

“I’m being serious.”

 

“Is there any reason you told Scott I was watching you in the shower?”

 

Peter sighs deeply, placing the newly rinsed dish in the drainer. “So, revenge?”

 

“You embarrass me to my friend,” Lydia points out. “I embarrass you in front of my mother. As far as I’m concerned, we’re even on that front now.”

 

Peter leans in close to Lydia’s side to whisper near her hair. “And what about all of the other fronts?”

 

Lydia ignores his question, substituting it in favor of one of her own. “Were you dreaming about the Hale house fire?”

 

Peter pulls away from her, his posture stiffening. Lydia hands him another plate, and he takes it, running it under the lukewarm water before stacking it upright. “That’s none of your business,” he says with an edge of tightness to his voice.

 

“Oh, I get it,” Lydia chides, venom sliding into her words. She halts in her task to place a hand on her hip and turn to look him in the eyes. “You don’t want to talk about the fire that tormented you to the girl who you attacked on a lacrosse field and tormented with nightmares for months on end until it nearly drove me mad? Do I have that right?”

 

Peter has the decency to look ashamed. He turns away from her, staring down at the dishes stubbornly with no reply.

 

“You aren’t the only person who’s ever had nightmares, Peter,” Lydia says as she scrubs down a glass. She hands it over to him when she is done. “You gave me plenty yourself. Welcome to the real world, where everyone’s affected.”

 

“That’s precisely the reason why I’m not talking to you about it,” Peter tells her as calmly as possible, taking the cup from her hand and rinsing it. “You wouldn’t and couldn’t care, so why should I share it with you?”

 

“What makes you think I wouldn’t care?”

 

Her words throw him off. With the water still running, Peter turns to look at her, placing his palms against the damp counter’s edge. He repeats exactly what she said, making sure none of it is lost on her. “I _attacked_ you on the lacrosse field for my own survival,” he says, reaching out to gingerly comb stray hairs behind her ear. Lydia, however, stares back with steel in her gaze and does not flinch away from his touch. “I implanted some of my memories in you against your will and tormented you with nightmares for months. I threatened the lives of all of your friends until you brought me back from the dead. Did I miss anything?”

 

“I’m not afraid of you anymore, Peter,” Lydia says, but her lower lip trembles.

 

Peter stares at it. He lifts his eyes to hers, lowering his hand from her ear. “That’s because I don’t want to hurt you again. Trust me, if I did, you’d still be afraid.” He grabs the next dish and washes it himself. “It’s survival instinct. Fear. It tells you when to run. It keeps you alive longer.”

 

“Were you afraid when the fire surrounded you?”

 

The water runs. His hands are still under the faucet, the plate getting more water than it needs to rinse the suds off of it. “Everyone who has any sense is afraid of fire.” He puts the dish away in the drainer. “You don’t come back from fires.”

 

“You did,” Lydia points out.

 

“No, I didn’t,” Peter says, his voice falling lower. He turns to look at her, noting her confused expression. “I’ll let you in on a little secret, Lydia.” He leans closer again. “That man who collapsed in the fire? Is not the same man who rose out of it six years later. No one knows that better than me.”

 

It’s silent between them. Then, Lydia reaches over to take the scrubber from his hand, their fingers sliding together briefly. Lydia resumes washing what is left in the sink, passing them over to him. “Hmm, it sounds familiar,” she tells him. For a moment, Peter thinks Lydia is mocking him with her tone until she adds, “That girl who fell on the lacrosse field is not the same girl who rose out of that hospital bed either.”

 

There is a weight hanging in the air, saying _you did that_ , and Peter feels it, but he doesn’t comment on it. He rinses the last glass she hands him, stacks it, and takes a small towel off the oven handle to dry his hands. He passes it to Lydia, who is in the middle of wiping her hands off on the sides of her shirt when she pauses at the offer. She stares for only a few seconds until she takes the proffered item and uses it instead of her shirt. When she is done, she turns off the faucet and silence descends on them once more.

 

Peter puts his back to the counter and leans against it, crossing his arms over his chest. He feels the need to say something and get it out in the open, so he throws caution to the wind. “Lydia, I am never going to apologize for opting to survive.” She bristles a little at his admittance without meeting his gaze. “But,” Peter adds quietly, allowing the word linger on the air between them until she looks at him. “The pain it caused you,” he says, never breaking her gaze. “I will say I’m sorry for that.”

 

Lydia keeps his gaze until her lip trembles, and she has to look away. She doesn’t cry, but she does pinch the bridge of her nose and shake her head. “Are we still in Kansas?” Lydia asks, trying to make a crack in the weight of the conversation. “Because that _definitely_ doesn’t sound like something you’d say.”

 

“I hope you heard it the first time,” Peter tells her in all sincerity, “because those aren’t words I’m going to repeat again.”

 

Lydia lowers her hand, taking a deep breath, and steels herself. “Thank you.”

 

“Don’t mention it,” Peter says. “It’s probably not something I’m going to earn for very long.”

 

Lydia raises an eyebrow. “Probably not,” she agrees.

 

With things back to some semblance of normality, or as close as they can get to it, Peter asks the one thing that is still on his mind. “Why didn’t you come over?”

 

Lydia looks at him, raising both of her eyebrows this time. “Why did you come over when I _didn’t_ come over?”

 

Peter narrows his eyes. “I asked you first.”

 

Lydia purses her lips. “I’ve had midterm exams to study for,” she says. “I don’t exactly have a lot of free time right now until I’m done with those.”

 

Peter makes a noncommittal sound in his throat, but he doesn’t say anything.

 

“Why did you come over?” Lydia asks.

 

Peter pushes off of the counter. “I got bored,” he says, which isn’t entirely a lie. A little bit of a lie, but there is enough truth to it that he can get away with it.

 

“Really.” She doesn’t sound like she believes him.

 

“In between the majority of my family either being dead or disowning me,” Peter points out, “Scott making me the town pariah, and no friends left alive to speak of, it can get a little boring from time to time.”

 

“That’s a lot of honesty in one sentence from you.”

 

Peter holds out his arms. “I’ll be here all week.” It’s a joke, of course. He doesn’t mean it literally, but Lydia looks at him and cocks an eyebrow as if he meant it that way.

 

Her expression loosens up, though, and she heads out of the kitchen. Peter isn’t sure what to do at first, but he isn’t going to linger in the kitchen, so he ends up following her into the living room. Lydia keeps walking, even as her mom looks up to say something to them.

 

“Mom,” Lydia calls, heading towards the stairs, “Peter’s going to come upstairs and help me with some of this paperwork I have, if that’s okay.”

 

“Of course, honey,” Miss Martin says from the couch, looking a little lost, but she smiles at them nonetheless. Peter offers a small wave in reply, trying to keep this as friendly as possible so that her mother doesn’t ask any questions. He looks up, though, and slides his hand along the balustrade as he follows Lydia on the stairs to the second story. He thinks maybe he should have been told something first, but Lydia might have wanted to keep it casual and inviting him to her bedroom just didn’t sound right out loud.

 

Lydia doesn’t say anything when they reach the door. She walks right in without telling him to come in, and Peter actually finds himself pausing in the doorway until he remembers that she told her mother he was coming up here with her.

 

He steps forward, veering to the left, unsure of what to do and waiting beside the wall as Lydia plops down in a chair and sighs, grabbing the strap of a nearby bag and dragging it towards her. She opens the flap and pulls out an old tome, worn with tattered seams. Its strings are frayed, sticking out at all angles. She looks at Peter from across the room where she sits in front of her vanity, holding the book up for him to see.

 

“Do you know what this is?” she asks him.

 

Peter walks toward her, craning his head to get a look at the cover. The scripture is nothing he is familiar with being able to read, but it isn’t foreign to him either. “It looks Gaelic,” he says. “Why?”

 

Lydia drops the tome onto her vanity, its weight rattling the legs. “Because I’ve been researching what I am.” Her eyes lift up to meet his. “Trying to understand the extent of my powers and how far they can go. Of course, none of the books paint a full picture. Most of its myth and it’s inapplicable, anyway, so I’ve been thinking. Adding in my own ideas. Taking science,” Lydia explains further, “and adding new conjectures.”

 

“Sounds potentially dangerous,” Peter offers up. “Why are you telling me?”

 

Lydia falters in her delivery, pausing and giving away her hesitation. “Because I want you to help me.”

 

Peter is silent at first. He knows what this means. “Scott must have said no.”

 

Lydia flushes just slightly, looking away. “Scott thinks it’s too dangerous. Stiles, too. All of them. After what happened at Eichen House, they think someone will get hurt by me.”

 

“But you want to control it.”

 

She looks up again at that. “Right,” Lydia says. “If I can learn to control it, maybe even harness it, then no one will get hurt.”

 

“That’s easier said than done.”

 

“I know,” Lydia agrees, “but if I don’t try, I’ll never know what I’m capable of.”

 

“Finding out what you’re capable of,” Peter points out, “is not always something you want to know.”

 

“I can handle it.”

 

Peter turns around, stepping away from her as he thinks about it. “So, let me get this straight,” he reiterates. “You want me to help you discover the extent of your potentially dangerous powers, thus putting myself in danger in the process, and none of your friends will help you with it _precisely_ because they don’t want to be put in harm’s way?”

 

Lydia’s voice is quiet when she answers him. “Right.”

 

“Hmm, I’m flattered, Lydia, but I don’t really see what I’m getting out of the deal here,” he tells her, turning around to face her again.

 

“It’s not a deal,” Lydia explains firmly. She hesitates again. “I’m asking if you’ll do this as a favor.”

 

“A favor?” Peter asks. “Well, that’s new. When did I get a reputation for favors?”

 

Lydia’s face hardens, though it doesn’t turn to stone. Her eyes are severe. “There is no one here for you to impress, Peter. A simple yes or no would suffice.”

 

He stares at her for a long time, and she stares right back. He considers it. It’s not as if he has anything else to do, and an image unbidden of him leaning over her shoulder in the dark to help her translate those millennia old passages comes to mind. Peter takes a moment to imagine leaning in close to her cheek, his fingers brushing hair out of the way, whispering answers in her ear as his voice sends shivers down her spine and causes her shoulder to tremble beneath his hand.

 

Hours and hours of frustration could lead to anything, and any of that would be far more exciting than what he is doing with his life now.

 

But that is his old self coming through more than anything, and Peter remembers the way Lydia saw him shuddering from a nightmare, calling out Cora’s name in his sleep. He remembers the way she witnessed him retrieving the notebook he purposely hid from her to have her ask _him_ for help. He remembers he came here today, not the other way around. He remembers their talk in the kitchen, secrets spilling all over the floor.

 

A developing arsenal against him, and he has nothing on her.

 

Finally, he answers her.

 

“I’ll do it on the grounds,” Peter tells her, never breaking eye contact, “of a favor for a favor.”

 

Lydia immediately shakes her head. “No, I said no fav—”

 

“C’mon,” Peter coaxes, giving her a look. “We both know I’m a last resort, which means you have nowhere else to go after me. A favor for a favor.” He holds open his hands. “And I’m your man.”

 

Lydia stares at him again. She seems to be considering it in her silence. Her eyes don’t even blink once as she regards him. Finally, she says, “No violence, no lies, and no tricks. Nothing illegal, and nothing that harms anyone.”

 

Peter raises his chin, eyes twinkling. “Deal.”

 

He extends his hand in the empty air as a gesture of good faith.

 

Lydia looks at it. Slowly, she rises from her chair. A few steps, and she is in arm’s reach. She lifts her arm, sliding fingers against his palm. She closes them around his hand, and he grips back. It’s a firm but short handshake, and then Peter steps closer to her and places his other hand on top of hers.

 

“Focus on your midterms first,” Peter tells her. “School is more important. When they’re over, you know where to find me.” He pats her hand and lets it go, turns away from her, and goes to leave. She doesn’t stop him.

 

He makes it out to the yard, having said goodbye to Miss Martin on his way out, when he reaches his vehicle and chances a look out of the corner of his eyes as he pulls open the door.

 

Lydia stands in the bedroom window to the side, just slightly behind the curtain. She disappears as he looks up.

 

Smiling to himself, Peter climbs in the driver side and shuts the door. He isn’t exactly sure what he accomplished tonight, but it’s infinitely more exciting than anything he could come up with on his own, so he welcomes the dissonance. It’s better than the silence, after all.

 

_Anything is better than silence_ , Peter thinks, pulling his vehicle off the curb to drive away. He turns on the radio to have something to listen to on the way home and tries not to think about the way her hand felt in his for the brief moment that he held it.

 

 


	7. What Have You Done and Why

_* * *_

 

It’s a small consolation, Peter thinks, that Lydia has decided not to wear perfume today.

 

His senses give him a headache whenever he gets a strong whiff of perfume, but she has chosen to be more au natural for his visit. Her hair thrown up in a messy bun, no makeup on to speak of but perhaps some mascara and lip balm, and the loose cardigan over an even looser tank top all to either impress him that she could care less what he thinks or took extra careful steps to make sure he wouldn’t take special notice of her today.

 

Which means she is either comfortable with him or wary of his possible interest. Both fill Peter with a sense he can only ascribe to as glee.

 

Lydia’s finger halts, points to a passage along the book they are surveying in her bedroom, and Peter leans more fully over her shoulder to get a closer look. “That word,” she says, “what does it mean?”

 

Peter narrows his eyes as if it might help him remember. It doesn’t. In the end his Gaelic is more rusty than it should be. “Memory, I think,” he replies. “Or a word similar to memory. Dream, maybe.” He leans back, placing a hand on the surface of her desk. The warmth of her dissipates with the motion. “Memory, dream, or knowledge? But if we’re reading this correctly, then you’re connected to the world in every way possible. No source of knowledge should escape you, even if it seems unreal . . . or from another plane of existence. Hidden, erased—you have access to all of it.” Peter taps his knuckles against the page. “You’re part of the source of it all. Or, well, banshees are.”

 

Lydia leans back in her chair. “But why?” She looks up at him over her shoulder. “Why would I have access to everything? That doesn’t make sense.”

 

Peter raises his eyebrows. “Doesn’t it?” he challenges her. “Maybe that’s where the old prediction myths come from.” Despite his argument, he shrugs. “Maybe death is just the loudest voice you hear.”

 

Lydia looks down at the book again. She falls still for a moment, staring at the page with unseeing eyes. “Somehow I knew you weren’t going to kill me, but I was still terrified.”

 

“Oh.” Peter sounds surprised and feels a bit awkward. “What brings this up?”

 

Lydia closes the book and turns in her swivel chair to face him, the old tome still in her lap with fingers pressed against the edges of its pages. Her eyes are filled with a calm clarity, which somehow exhilarates him even more than uncertainty ever could and causes the blood to race through his veins—yet also it gives him something to fear. How regal she is, staring up at him like that.

 

“I knew you weren’t going to kill me,” Lydia repeats. Her eyes flutter to the left as sudden regret passes over her face. “I ran because—”

 

“The bite,” Peter finishes for her, crossing his arms. His chin raises, but their eyes still meet each other. “You knew I was going to bite you, so you ran. It’s sensible. I can’t argue with that.”

 

Maybe it is just a part of his imagination, but it seems as if Lydia’s shoulders tremble at her next admission, her hands pressing down harder onto the book in her lap. “I could feel how much you wanted me,” she says, her voice creating an accidental rasp of nervousness. She swallows past a lump. “I knew it wasn’t death you sought on the lacrosse field that night.”

 

“No,” Peter admits. He finds this part easy. “I wanted a pack. You seemed like a good addition, and I knew you were strong. At least strong enough to withstand the bite.” He crouches down in front of her, casually folding his fingers together. “Immunity was just a pleasant surprise.”

 

She has a steady gaze. Their current conversation doesn’t steer it away from his own. “It wasn’t just that,” Lydia contemplates out loud, her expression turning curious as her head tilts.

 

Peter knows her meaning.

 

He draws in a deep breath, releasing it with a look of being beaten or figured out and finding it inconsequential to hide now. “Yes, I wanted you.”

 

“Still,” Lydia corrects without her gaze wavering. “Want me.”

 

Peter narrows his eyes. “Do I?”

 

Lydia pushes the old tome aside, finding a place on the desk to rest it before meeting his eyes again. She leans forward in the chair, the loose bits of hair not caught in the bun falling forward as well. They are dangerously close now. “You tell me,” she says.

 

A dare.

 

Peter knows it’s stupid. He doesn’t just think it, he _knows_ it. Cloying has never been her strong suit, not unless she does it with a bit of bite and sarcasm. There is no bite or sarcasm, however, to her words. No reason not to take her up on it. No notion to indicate that she is only teasing, making fun of him, and not offering a genuine invitation for them to go on and make a mistake.

 

Hook, line, and sinker. He takes the bait.

 

A quick slip of space, and his mouth is on hers, one of his hands grasping in her hair. He pulls her closer with a firm grip on the back of her neck. Lydia doesn’t taste of ash and aconite as he remembers, but mint lip balm and sweet warmth. It’s almost like biting into a sun-ripened peach. He parts his lips against hers, and she answers in same.

 

It drives him wild when her tongue grazes his, and he likes to think he is the one in control, but Lydia drives everything. Her hands scrape against his scalp as she tugs him into her personal sphere, bodies bumping and movements becoming hurried and frantic. He tries to catch her lip with his teeth, but Lydia slips away and scoops back in to bite him back harder and somehow that’s even better than anything else he could think of.

 

He’s lost in the electricity of her touch until a moment of clarity hits when Lydia twines her thighs around his midsection while he kneels before her chair.

 

Peter freezes without pulling away, but his sudden halt is enough to stop Lydia in her tracks as well. All of the certainty she had in her actions is not reflected in her eyes as she stares back at him, a strange vulnerability in them. Even the hands on his shoulders falter, grip loosening.

 

“You don’t want this,” he tells her, watching her expression for a reaction.

 

Lydia blinks too many times, catches herself. Realigns her motives. “Says who?” The words, a mere breath. A whisper. Try as he might to keep his sensibilities about him, her unexpected response floors him. It sends his blood pumping into overdrive, his heart beating too fast and his lungs racing to catch up with it. Peter hides it well, getting up and backing away from her.

 

“You don’t mix business with pleasure,” he clarifies, finding a logical rebuke the best route. The least likely for her to argue against. Peter straightens his shirt, smoothing the wrinkles out of it with his hands.

 

“This isn’t business,” Lydia replies. Before he knows it, she has gotten up to stand beside him. A hand touches his arm. “You’re helping me—”

 

“—By fucking you?” Peter throws back, twisting his head to look at her. He hopes harsh words at least get some shock value across. He wants it strong enough to cause an emotional smack. Defense is his only escape route against Lydia. “That’s how we solve this? I shove you against that wall and fuck your brains out?” He advances on her enough to make Lydia back away from him. “I bend you over this chair and—”

 

“ _Stop_ it—”

 

“Oh, is me saying it too much for you? I thought you wanted to do it just a minute ago—”

 

Lydia stands her ground, eyes blazing as she crosses her arms. “You know what, Peter? Screw you.”

 

He chuffs in amusement. “If only, right?” Peter cocks his head, affecting his best smirk. “I’m not your stress ball to squeeze whenever you feel like it, Lydia.”

 

“ _Excuse_ me?” Her anger is palpable. Real. Good. He hit a nerve.

 

“I know you,” Peter says in a lower voice, leaning into her personal space. “I was in your head. Remember?”

 

Lydia’s eyes burn before her hand comes up and slaps him. It’s not as hard as it could be, but it’s hard enough to leave a bite against his skin. “Get out,” she demands, nostrils flaring as her eyes watch him, watering but not teary. It’s an angry kind of burn. There is nothing sad in it. Just anger. “ _Ass_ hole,” she hisses.

 

And maybe some hurt.

 

Peter purses his lips before nodding in agreement, and then he leans in despite the threat of another possible strike of her hand. “Yes,” he agrees. “I am. Don’t forget it.” He smirks again. “A roll in the proverbial hay won’t change that.”

 

Lydia doesn’t deign him with an answer, just a glare that says he’s got less than two minutes to get out of her sight before she starts swinging at him or throwing things in his general direction. Peter takes the hint and ducks out of her room and out of her house before anything else can be said or done between them.

 

It’s not until he is halfway across town in his vehicle when he realizes just what he may have done to their relationship. Peter snorts to himself in the silence.

 

“What relationship?” he asks himself out loud, but the feeling of dread in his gut grows with every mile he puts between himself and Lydia.

 

 


End file.
